Dirty Desires (Devil Kings MC #3) - Nicole James Page 0,24
follows.
A few minutes later, I see two headlights coming up the road. They’re barely visible through the pouring rain and mist. I recognize Gypsy’s pickup as it stops at the curb, and I dash out. It’s about twenty yards to the curb, so I’m soaked by the time I jump in the truck.
He holds out a flannel shirt. “Here, put this on.”
I take it and dry my face with it. He turns the vehicle toward the exit. As he pulls down the long drive, I struggle out of my wet shirt and slip on the warm flannel. I catch Gypsy’s eyes dart over to my bra-covered breasts. “Eyes on the road, mister.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Speaking of roads, they’re flooding everywhere, and they’ve closed the interstate.”
My fingers fumble with the buttons. “Oh no.”
He pins me with his eyes. “I got us a motel room. Last one they had.”
I freeze. “Oh.”
“You got a problem with that?”
I swallow. Do I? “No,” I squeak out like a mouse and turn my eyes to the windshield, a million thoughts racing through my mind. Will there be one bed or two? Will we have sex? I panic as another thought pops in my head. Which panties did I slip on this morning? For the life of me, I can’t remember. I almost want to pull my waistband out and peek. My hand itches on my thigh. I rub my palm across it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Are we going to do it? Do I want to do it? Do I really have it in me to resist him if he makes a move on me? Do I want him to make a move on me? I finally drag in a slow breath.
“You okay?”
My gaze darts to him. He’s watching me closely. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“What happened in there? You usually stay longer.”
I shake my head and stare out the passenger window. I can’t even concentrate on my fucking father right now. How can he be thinking about my father right now? We may be having sex soon. I start deep breathing again. Fuck, I can’t have a panic attack. I’ve never had one before, but maybe they run in the family. My mother’s had quite a few.
All too soon he’s turning the truck into a motel. It’s one with exterior doors so we won’t have to troop through the lobby. He pulls around to the end and parks, and then lifts a finger off the steering wheel to point. “This one’s ours. We got lucky. It’s on the first floor at least.”
I wouldn’t say the motel is a dump; it looks about mid-grade on the quality scale, but it’s not a national chain, at least not one I recognize.
He shuts the truck off and looks over at me. “You ready?”
I nod and put my hand on the door. The minute I step out, my shoe sinks into the standing water. The parking lot is indeed starting to flood. I dash up under the second story walkway, out of the downpour, and meet him at the door.
“Ow wee,” he yells out, shaking the rain off his head and sliding the card in the lock. He has to yank on the handle a couple of times before it opens. I stare at the number on the door—sixteen—and suddenly that’s how old I feel.
We enter, and the room is frigid, the AC blasting from the old unit under the window. There is indeed just one queen bed.
He sees that I stare at it but ignores the issue and moves to crank on the heat.
I slip off my wet shoes and rub my hands on the flannel sleeves of his shirt, grateful that at least I’m dry.
When Gypsy is through adjusting the heat, he moves to the desk and picks up a pizza delivery menu. “You hungry?”
I jump at the chance to delay what is probably the inevitable. “Sure. Pizza would be great. You think they’re delivering in this storm?”
“Let’s find out.” He pulls his phone out and makes the call while I wander into the bathroom. Not because I need to, but just to get some privacy from him for a minute while I try to keep my internal freak-out at bay. Once the door is closed between us, I make a face and stare at the ceiling, mouthing all kinds of swear words. I finally breathe deep and tell my reflection to calm the fuck down. He’s just a guy.